


There's Bound To Be Talk Tomorrow

by schlicky



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky/pseuds/schlicky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tradition is probably one that was suggested by Ray. The preferred wardrobe for the company party is an ugly Christmas sweater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Bound To Be Talk Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for salvadore_hart for the 2011 YAGKYAS exchange.

He isn’t a big fan of Christmas.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that he was raised Jewish, even though that’s the explanation that Ray repeatedly tells everyone within a five mile radius.

He’s not a big fan of Christmas because it’s too busy.

The stores are crowded. He can’t even go buy deodorant and condoms without having to weave through insane traffic simply because Target is having a huge sale.

Despite the fact that there’s all this talk of holiday spirit and good cheer, people sure are pushy and rude. All because they want an XBox.

And some of the decorations are tacky as fuck.

Brad looks away from the huge blown-up snow globe sitting on someone’s front lawn back up at the traffic light. He revs the engine of his bike and zooms through the intersection when the light turns green. He parks in his usual spot in the parking lot at work - on the end, furthest from the door, where no one else parks.

He meets Nate halfway across the asphalt, and Nate smiles at him.

“Morning, Brad.”

“Morning, sir.” The ‘sir’ has Nate rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t insist that Brad not call him that. He gave up on that a long time ago. Mostly Brad calls him that because Nate’s expression when he does it amuses him.

“How was your weekend?” Nate asks. He sips from his travel mug as they head toward the building. Brad notes that it has a holiday theme. There is a giant Christmas tree on one side with snowflakes.

“Fine,” Brad says, and then gestures. “That’s cute.”

Nate looks down at the mug like he’s forgotten which one he pulled out of the cabinet, but Brad knows that is a bunch of bullshit. Nate is an early-riser like Brad and would have been awake and coherent by the time he was pouring his coffee to take with him to work.

“My niece gave it to me,” Nate tells him. He is giving Brad a look that Brad knows well. Eyebrows slightly raised, mouth not quite smiling. Amused, but trying to hide it. Brad is tempted to tell Nate his niece has bad taste just to see what happens.

“That was -“ Brad pauses “- _nice_ of her.” He pulls the lobby door open and gestures for Nate to enter in front of him. Nate goes through the door, laughing.

“You’re an asshole, Brad.” Nate pushes the up button for the elevator and watches the numbers above the doors light up as the elevator descends back to the ground level. He’s still grinning.

Brad shrugs his shoulders. They ride the elevator up to the fifth floor mostly in silence. He steps out first when Nate motions him off, but he pauses a minute to let Nate fall into step with him. “What’s on your agenda for the day?” he asks.

Nate huffs a laugh. “You mean aside from dealing with bullshit?”

“I hear that looks pretty good on a résumé.” Brad grins and they continue through the office, down the aisle between the cubicles and the outer offices reserved for members of management. He raps his knuckles against the top of Walt’s computer monitor as they go by. “Morning, Walt.”

“Morning.” Walt flashes a small, almost shy smile.

Brad steps into the small cubicle he and Ray share, slinging his bag off his shoulder and onto the end of his L-shaped desk. He is less than thrilled to realize that there are even _more_ Christmas decorations in their shared space today than was there last week. The stockpile has been gradually building since the first of December.

His computer is already turned on, and his desktop has been changed to a picture of a menorah. Brad sighs.

“That’s cute,” Nate says. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and Brad knows he’s trying really hard not to lose his shit.

“Where did that donkey-fucking shit head go?”

“Good morning to you, too, Bradley. I so missed you.” Ray is holding a cardboard carrying tray with a large coffee. He holds it out to Brad.

Brad isn’t sure whether to feel bad for the name-calling or not. “Thanks.” He pulls the coffee out of the holder and takes a sip. Perfect. Just the way he likes it.

“Walt brought them,” Ray says, throwing the cardboard holder like a frisbee over the top of one side of their cubicle, into Poke and Lilley’s area.

“Brah, you almost knocked my drink over,” Lilley bitches, and Ray rolls his eyes and drops into his seat.

“Thanks for the coffee, Walt,” Brad says. His desk shares the same partition as Walt’s.

“You’re welcome,” Walt answers him.

“I like what you’ve done with the space,” Nate says, his elbow resting on the top corner of the cubicle wall. “It sort of looks like an _I Love Lucy_ episode.”

“Is that corny as shit pop-culture reference supposed to mean something to me?” Ray asks and bats the crumpled up paper that comes from Poke and Lilley’s area down to the ground.

Nate smiles. “There is an episode where they divide the apartment in half with tape. Lucy’s side and Ricky’s side,” he answers, making a gesture to Ray’s side of the cubicle and then Brad’s.

Ray’s side looks like Christmas threw up on it. Brad’s is mostly empty. He has successfully threatened Ray’s life and limbs enough that the decorations have been kept at bay.

“Wait, does that make me Lucy or Ricky?” Ray asks, and Nate laughs before pushing his weight off the partition.

“Don’t forget we have the departmental meetings in the conference room this morning at ten,” Nate tells them, sipping from his ridiculous travel mug. “And Brad, if you’re going to the Christmas party, I need to know by lunch tomorrow.” He hits the top of the cubicle with the flat of his hand and turns on his heel, heading for his office in the corner.

Brad reaches for his coffee and takes a sip. He doesn’t have to look in Ray’s direction to know that Ray is staring at him.

“What?” Brad asks after another moment.

“What do you mean, you’re not going to the Christmas party?” Ray asks, incredulous.

“Ray, I know you’re retarded and understanding the definition of small words like ‘no’ is hard for you, but I really need you to try not to be such a fucking dumbass,” Brad says. “Why would I go to the company Christmas party? It’s a waste of fucking time.”

“Christ, you’re such a Grinch.”

“I’m Jewish, Ray.”

“Dude, you’re not even a practicing Jew.” Ray actually spins his chair around to totally face him, but Brad doesn’t look, he just continues to stare at his monitor, clicking through the emails that appeared overnight. “You just tell everyone you’re Jewish because you like to put a damper on their Christmas glee and then watch them squirm as they try to come up with something else to fuckin’ say.”

Brad glances briefly at Ray then, once. “Hey Poke, switch seats with me.”

“Fuck you.” Poke’s answer is a little muffled by the cubicle wall between them. Brad ignores Ray’s indignant squawk of protest.

“I’m fucking hurt, Brad,” Ray tells him. “Seriously wounded.”

Brad rolls his eyes.

“Brad, do you have a minute?”

He looks up at that and raises an eyebrow at Walt who is standing outside the opening to their cubicle.

Walt picks at some of the red and green tinsel Ray has hanging from the top edge of the partition. “The printer is jammed again, and my computer is fucking possessed. I don’t know what the hell it’s doing. I thought you might be able to figure it out.”

“You know, Walt, if you want to ask Brad out, you could just sac up and do it instead of sabotaging your computer all the time just so you can rub elbows with him,” Ray tells him, leaning back in his chair, grinning broadly.

For some reason that Brad can’t quite figure out, one of Ray’s favorite running jokes right now is that Walt has a huge office crush on Brad.

“Shut the fuck up, Ray,” Brad says blithely. He climbs to his feet and looks at Ray again. “Don’t you have some fucking work to do?”

Ray makes a face at him, but he spins his chair around to face his computer screen. “Jesus titty-fucking Christ. Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?” he mutters.

Brad tries not to smile and falls into step with Walt to walk to the next cubicle over. He sits down in Walt’s desk chair and after a few minutes of poking around, he knows exactly why the computer is on the fritz. He spins in the chair to look up at Walt, who is standing behind him, coffee in hand.

“I’ll fix it this time, but next time you’re going to owe me something better than a coffee.”

Mid-sip, Walt nearly chokes on his drink.

Brad’s mouth twitches.

Well, _that’s_ interesting.

* * *

It has turned out to be one of those mornings where Brad has spent the majority of his time answering really stupid fucking questions. His inbox is full of them. Questions that, had the people possessed even a shred of common sense, never would have been asked in the first place.

“Hey, Tony, do you have the red stapler? I can’t find it.” Brad hears Evan ask on the other side of the partition, and Ray snorts a laugh next to him, muttering something about Milton and fires.

“Dawg, the last time I saw that thing, Person was humping it in near the copier,” Poke answers.

“Ray, do you have the red stapler?” Evan peers over the cubicle wall to look at Ray.

Ray snorts. “Nah, bro, I gave that shit to Garza.”

Brad looks up at Evan. “What the fuck do you need it for?”

“This.” Evan waves a stack of papers. “It’s a report I finished writing and it’s too thick for the stapler I have. They won’t go all of the way through it.”

Trombley pops up from the cubicle he shares with Evan on the other side of Poke and Lilley’s. “So why don’t you just use a binder clip instead?”

“Newbie has a fucking point, brah,” Lilley says.

“Christ, Wright, don’t make us move your desk back into the storage closet,” Ray tells him. The rest of them laugh at that, even Evan, though maybe not as heartily as everyone else.

Trombley looks puzzled. “The storage closet?” he asks. “What about it?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Trombley,” Ray answers. “Or one of these days you’ll walk in and your desk will have magically disappeared. If you’re _really_ lucky, you’ll be in the storage closet. There was that one year we moved Chaffin’s shit to the _roof_.” He pauses. “Man, that was a good one.”

“Shit, bro, on that note, it’s time for some fucking lunch,” Poke mutters, shaking his head.

On Mondays they order pizza for lunch and have it delivered. They all eat in the office as little as humanly possible. They spend enough time confined inside. There’s a courtyard behind the building with picnic tables, and that’s where they usually sit.

Most of the time during the week, Nate has to attend business lunches and doesn’t eat with them, but on Mondays he’s almost always there, shooting the shit.

“Who is the fucking genius that came up with this idea?” Ray asks through a mouthful of pizza topped with the works. “Oh, wait, that was me.”

“Dawg, your white ass needs to learn some fucking manners,” Poke tells Ray.

“Seriously, brah, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Lilley chimes in.

Brad reaches for another slice of pizza. “I’m sad to say you are wasting your time, gents,” he says. “Trying to teach this inbred hick anything close to resembling manners would be like trying to put shoes on a snake.”

“You mean utterly fucking pointless,” Walt says and grins when Ray flicks him off.

“Precisely.”

Trombley chews thoughtfully for a minute before he says, “I had a snake once.”

“So, hey, listen to this bullshit,” Ray says after a minute where they all pause to glance at Trombley and share bewildered looks. He slaps his hand on the table to get everyone’s attention and then he jerks a thumb at Brad. “This motherfucker over here says he’s not going to the holiday party.”

“Hasn’t he said that every year?” Lilley asks at the same time that Poke says, “Bro, you should go for the free booze, at least.”

Nate smiles. “Poke has a point, Brad. It’s worth going, even if you’re just going for the drinks.”

“Have you forgotten the part where my brother-in-law owns a fucking bar?” Brad asks. “I can get free booze whenever I want.” He polishes off his second slice of pizza and wipes his hands off on a napkin.

“Blah, blah, blah, excuses, excuses.” Ray rolls his eyes. “You can’t fool us, man. You’re just pissed that you don’t have a date to bring with you and there’s no hope of you being able to get laid. Unlike me.”

“It astounds me that anyone would _ever_ want to have sex with you, let alone on a regular basis,” Brad tells Ray, who just grins at him.

“Come on, homes, don’t lie. You totally want my dick.”

“I want your dick like I want a hole blown in my head,” Brad tells him.

“Oh, wait, no, that’s right. You’d rather have Walt’s,” Ray says as Trombley mutters, “You guys are all a bunch of fags.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ray.” Walt throws pizza crust at Ray’s head, but Ray ducks, laughing.

When Brad looks up at Walt, he sees that Walt’s cheeks are tinged pink. Brad can’t tell if it’s because of the sun, or the heat, or if Walt is actually _blushing_.

* * *

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ray shoots him an innocent look and picks his beer up, taking a long sip. Walt is not fooled.

“Jesus Christ, Ray.” Walt stares at him. “Whatever matchmaker bullshit you’re trying to accomplish, fucking knock it off. At the rate you’re going, I’m gonna have to quit my fucking job because I can’t bear to look Brad in the face anymore.”

Ray grins. “Come on, Walt. It ain’t like you’ve been lookin’ at his face anyway.”

“ _Ray!_ ” Walt kicks Ray under the table. Hard.

“Fuck, ow!” Ray bends down to rub at his shin. “You asshole.” He straightens up again and wraps his hands around his tall glass of beer. “Do you really think Brad would let me get away with those kinds of jokes if he wasn’t even the least bit into the idea of nailing your ass?”

The question is asked without a smile, without a joke, and Walt pauses, unsure how he’s supposed to take that.

“Shit, I bet he has a diary with all of these kinky fucking ideas for what he wants to do to you after he’s got you tied - ”

“Stop it, Ray.”

Ray just shrugs his shoulders, probably trying for nonchalance, but that’s ruined by the grin he can’t seem to get rid of. He drops that line of conversation for the time being though, much to Walt’s relief. “At least the party is tomorrow night,” he says. “That’s always a good time.”

“Fuck it, I’m not going to this stupid party. I’m going to pretend I’m violently ill,” Walt mutters, draining the last of his beer.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, dear Walt,” Ray says and shakes his head. “I told Brad you’d be there for sure, so your ass is showing up tomorrow even if I have to stop by your house on the way, hog-tie you and throw you in the trunk.”

Walt throws his hands up, exasperated. “Brad’s not even going to be there, Ray. He has said repeatedly that he’s not going.”

Ray gives him a look. “Yeah, he _says_ that. I’ll bet you lunch every day next week that that asshole is going to show. It’s free booze, and he knows you’re going to be there, drunk and alone.”

“I’m not going to be drunk and alone.” Walt pauses. “Okay, I’ll be there alone, but I won’t be drunk.”

Ray’s grin is full of teeth. “Yeah, you say that now.”

“Ray, if you roofie my drink, I’ll punch you in the balls. I’m not even kidding.”

* * *

Walt is not entirely sure when the tradition started, but it has been in force since he started working here. He’s pretty sure the tradition is probably one that was suggested by Ray. The preferred wardrobe for the company party is an ugly Christmas sweater.

And he has seen some really ugly sweaters.

Ray has outdone himself this year. The sweater he opted to wear lights up and sings. In addition to the ugly sweater, he has on a santa hat and is carrying around some mistletoe on a pole.

Walt makes a mental note to avoid Ray for the duration of the evening. He nurses his beer and smiles politely when all of his co-workers bring their wives and girlfriends over to introduce them to him. Mostly they’re all really sweet, but it makes him all too aware that he is here by himself.

“You know, you’d probably feel less sorry for yourself if you’d stop hanging out near the bar and actually mingled with some people,” Ray tells him when he comes by to pick up a new drink for himself and a drink for his girlfriend. The girlfriend that, according to Ray, will soon be his fiancée.

“Even _Trombley_ has a date,” Walt points out. “I think I’m entitled to feel sorry for myself.” If he’s being entirely honest with himself, he’s sort of bummed that Brad hasn’t shown up. He’d been hoping that maybe Ray had been telling the truth, that Brad would show up because Walt’s here.

“Yeah. Who’d’a thunk it?” Ray glances over his shoulder to look in the direction he last saw Trombley. “Come on, man. Lighten up.” Walt can’t help but laugh when Ray lights his sweater up.

“You’re a fucking messed up hick,” Walt tells him. He finishes off his beer and then hits the end of the bottle against Ray’s shoulder. “You owe me lunch all next week, by the way.”

“I’m pretty sure we agreed that I owed you lunch if Colbert never showed up,” Ray tells him, starting to back away.

“I’m pretty sure I’d notice if Brad was here.”

“Yeah, because of your giant man-crush on him,” Ray says, waggling his eyebrows. “You might want to look behind you, Hasser.”

It feels like his stomach drops all the way down to his toes. Walt looks over his shoulder and he’s relieved when it turns out that Brad isn’t standing _directly_ behind him. Brad is at the bar getting a drink. Walt takes a breath and turns back around, sees Ray standing across the room with his girlfriend.

Ray makes a few vulgar gestures and laughs when Walt glares at him.

“I see you forwent the traditional ugly sweater.”

Walt looks up at Brad, heartbeat spiking. “I didn’t want to spend money on something I wouldn’t want to be caught dead wearing,” he says and manages a smile.

“Point. I brought you another beer,” Brad tells him, holding a second one out.

Walt glances at the bottle he has in his hand and then takes the bottle from Brad. “How did you know I needed another one?” he asks.

Brad flashes a grin. “Come on, Walt, I know everything.”

“Oh.” Walt takes a sip of his new beer and sets the empty one on one of the tables. “I thought you weren’t going to come tonight?”

“Changed my mind,” Brad answers with a shrug. “Plus, you know, free booze.”

Walt hates that he seems to get so nervous around Brad, that he can’t seem to come up with anything intelligent or charming to say. He fiddles with the label on his beer. “Ray has mistletoe.” He casts a glance at Brad and watches the line of Brad’s throat as he swallows a swig of beer.

“Noted.” Brad is smiling a little. “I guess we should avoid him if we don’t want to end up making out.”

“Um.” Walt swallows at the thought. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.”

There’s a pause before Brad says, “Unless you _want_ to make out.”

Walt chokes on his beer. “What?” He stares at the huge grin Brad gives him and watches as Brad moves away to make the rounds with everyone else.

* * *

One of the overhead lights is out in the bathroom and sort of gives it the feel of a seedy motel or something. Walt thinks the soap in the dispensers smells horrible. He contemplates not washing his hands. His hands are under the air drier when the door opens.

It’s Brad.

“Any reason in particular you’ve been avoiding me?” Brad asks him.

Walt watches Brad until he steps up to the urinal. Then he turns his head quickly, looking back down at the way his skin ripples under the force of the air. “I haven’t been avoiding you,” he says, but then Brad waits until he’s at the sink to continue.

“You haven’t talked to me all night,” Brad tells him, soaping his hands up. “If that’s not you avoiding me, I’d hate to see what your definition of avoidance really is.”

Okay, so Brad is right. He’s been avoiding him. Like the plague.

“So why is that?” Brad moves over to the drier and puts his hands under it, arching an eyebrow at Walt.

Walt doesn’t have much of an answer for that. Not one that wouldn’t amount to him admitting that he wants to shove his tongue down Brad’s throat.

It turns out he doesn’t need an answer. Brad makes the first move, crowds him up against the wall and kisses him.

Walt opens his mouth under Brad’s, a soft noise escaping his mouth into Brad’s. He puts his hands on Brad’s hips and digs his fingers in, gripping hard.

Brad seems to take it as an invitation because he steps closer, presses them tightly together. His mouth moves to Walt’s jaw, and then to the spot on Walt’s neck under his ear. Brad makes a noise that sound suspiciously like a moan.

Walt tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, gasping. His breath catches in his throat when Brad’s hips roll against his. “Fuck, Brad.”

“This party is fucking lame,” Brad mutters, his mouth still against Walt’s skin. “You wanna get out of here?”

“God, yeah.” Walt feels Brad’s teeth on the line of his jaw, nipping lightly, and then Brad’s kissing him again. Neither of them hears the bathroom door open. They don’t realize they’re not alone until there’s a cough from the doorway. He was already starting to get warm, but now Walt feels his skin really heat up, and he knows he has to be blushing.

Brad looks at Poke and Ray, nonplussed.

“Brad, you totally _are_ like the Grinch,” Ray says, grinning. “Your cold, icy heart grew three sizes!”

“I’m not so sure it was his heart, dawg.”

“And I didn’t even have to use the mistletoe.”  



End file.
